The Penobscot River.
Off the Coast of Maine. July.
A week ago I was fighting with mosquitoes and flies, on the head waters
of the Penobscot, and now that I am upon the ocean once more, I fancy
that my feelings are allied to those of an old moose that I lately saw
standing in a mountain lake, with the water up to his chin. The noble
river which I have mentioned, “is all my fancy painted it,” and in spite
of its insect inhabitants, I shall ever remember it with pleasure.
The length of this stream, from the mouth of its bay, to where its
principal branches come together, is about one hundred and forty miles;
from this junction, to the fountain head of the west branch, the
distance is supposed to be one hundred and fifty miles, while the east
branch is probably only one hundred miles in length. Both of these
streams rise in the midst of a mountain wilderness, looming above which,
is old Katahden, the loftiest mountain in Maine, and elder brother to
Mount Washington, in New Hampshire. This mountain is distant from
Moosehead Lake only about twenty miles; but it towers into the sky so
grandly, that nearly all the people who inhabit the northern part of
Maine, look upon it as a familiar friend. The two branches of the
Penobscot, run through a mountainous region, both of them abounding in
rapids, though the west branch contains a number of picturesque falls.
The soil of this region, generally speaking, is good, but remains in its
original wilderness. Its stationary inhabitants are few and far between;
but it gives employment to about three thousand lumbermen. They spend
the winter in wielding the axe in the forests, and the spring and summer
in driving down the stream logs which they have prepared for the
saw-mills, which are mostly situated on the lower part of the Penobscot.
Nine months in the year they labour without ceasing, but usually
appropriate to themselves a three months holiday, which is the entire
autumn. They are a young and powerfully built race of men, mostly New
Englanders, generally unmarried, and, though rude and intemperate in
their manners, are very intelligent. They seem to have a passion for
their wild and toilsome life, and, judging from their dresses, I should
think possess a fine eye for the comic and fantastic. The entire apparel
of an individual usually consists of a pair of grey pantaloons, and two
red flannel shirts, a pair of long boots, and a woollen covering for the
head, and all these things are worn at one and the same time. The
head-covering alluded to, when first purchased, is what might be called
a hat; but the wearers invariably take particular pains to transform the
article into such queer shapes, as to render it indescribable. Sometimes
they take the crown and tic it in the shape of a fool’s-cap, and
sometimes they trim the rims with a jack-knife, into many different
fashions. Their wages vary from twenty to thirty dollars per month; and
they are chiefly employed by the lumber merchants of Bangor, who furnish
them with necessary supplies.
The Penobscot, I suppose, is unquestionably the most fruitful lumber
river in the United States, and its pine and hemlock forests seem yet to
be inexhaustible. And the State of Maine is indebted to the lumber
business for many of its beautiful cities and towns.
From the Forks of the Penobscot to Bangor, the distance is about sixty
miles. This portion of the river is about a quarter of a mile wide. The
banks are rather low and level, and somewhat cultivated. The water is
deep and clear, and the current strong. Generally speaking, the scenery
of the river is not remarkable, and were it not for its numerous
islands, it might be considered tame, by the lover of a mountain land.
The islands alluded to, however, are exceedingly beautiful. Covered as
they are with venerable elms, and containing no underbrush, but a
continuous plot of green, they have all the appearance of cultivated
parks. The stage-route, from Woodstock, after reaching the Penobscot,
continues along the eastern bank, and as the coaches are comfortable,
and the horses good, the ride is very pleasant. The principal village,
of which there are four, is Old Town. It is a busy little place, and the
present termination of a railroad from Bangor, which is twelve miles
distant. Directly opposite Old Town is a small island, where reside a
remnant of the Penobscot Indians. They number some four hundred souls,
and are just sufficiently civilized to lead a very miserable sort of
life.
I come now to speak of Bangor. It is a well-built and handsome city,
eighty miles from the ocean, and contains about eight thousand
inhabitants. It is at the head of tide water navigation, and has a good
harbour, where I counted from one point near two hundred sails. The
principal article of trade is lumber, which is distinguished for its
good qualities. All the heaviest merchants are engaged in the lumber
trade, and almost every body deals in it to a limited extent. A few
thousand shingles will pay your tailor for a coat, a few loads of plank
will settle your account with the butcher, and bundles of clap-boards
are gladly received by the grocer, in exchange for his tea and sugar.
With the people of Bangor I was much pleased. Their manners and habits
are stamped with the true New England character, they mind their own
business, and are distinguished for their intelligence, virtue, and
hospitality. When I reached this place, my beard was more than half as
long as that of the Wandering Jew; and it took me nearly a whole day to
forget the bad French which I had acquired in Canada and New Brunswick,
and transform myself into the semblance of a civilized man. I had been
in the woods for so long a time, that I seized the first paper I saw to
find out whether I had forgotten to read. You may readily imagine,
therefore, what a refreshing effect the appearance and conversation of
intelligent people had upon my feelings. But the class of citizens who
made the deepest impression upon me, were the children of Bangor. I met
them at every corner, and heard their happy voices in every dwelling,
and a more perfectly beautiful race of creatures, I never before saw in
any city.
The distance from Bangor to the ocean is eighty miles. For twenty miles
the river averages three quarters of a mile in width, when it gradually
widens into an expansive bay or gulf. The water is deep, always covered
with vessels, and abounds with salmon, which are only taken with the
net. The shores are hilly, and well-cultivated, and the towns of
Bucksport, Frankfort, Belfast and Thomaston, as you pass them, present
each a thriving and pleasant appearance.